I Missed 11:11
by sammysgirl719
Summary: They say if you make a wish on 11:11, it will come true.  Wee!chesters.  Sam's POV as an adult.  Character death.


**Summary:** They say if you make a wish on 11:11, it will come true. Wee!chesters. Sam's POV as an adult. Character death.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.

**I Missed 11:11**

They say if you make a wish on 11:11, it will come true. When I was younger, I was a firm believer in this myth. I mean, who wouldn't want to believe that if you simply ask for something you want at a certain time of day, you'll get it? At ten years old, I still retained some innocence, even with what I knew about the creatures that lurk in the dark. So, of course, I fell for this magical tale that I'd been told. My father and brother were hell bent skeptics, continuously trying to convince me that 11:11 held no more magical power than any other hour on the clock. But, being as stubborn as I am, I clinged to the legend. I wanted so desperately to believe that if there was so much evil in the world, there was also some good, too.

I joined along with the few friends I had and started wishing on the sacred time. While the others' wished differed each time and usually consisted of things like toys, candy, and the like, mine always stayed the same: to keep my father and brother safe. They were all I had in the world, the ones whom I loved above all else, and I would do anything to protect them. Every day, morning and night, I made sure I was by a clock so that when it turned 11:11, I could whisper my prayer. I never once forgot. And for a little while, my wish always came true.

One Saturday morning, while we sat on the couch in our small rented house watching t.v., the telephone rang. It was one of Dean's friends, inviting my brother to go with him and his mom to the water park. Running into the kitchen where our dad was drinking his morning coffee and scanning recent obits, Dean asked if it was alright. After receiving a nod of approval, Dean told his friend he could. After hanging up the phone, he looked at me and said, "Do you want to come, Sammy? I'm sure they wouldn't mind." Man, did I want to go. But Dean deserved to have a day of fun without being shadowed by his little brother. So, shaking my head, I replied, "No thanks, you go ahead. I have some homework I need to start."

"Are you sure?" he asked in an incredulous voice. "You have all weekend to do homework." I looked into his eyes, saw how excited he was to hang out with kids his own age, and smiled. "I'm sure."

An hour later, I waved goodbye to Dean and his friend as his mom pulled out of our driveway, headed to the water park. As I stood there watching them leave, I had this nagging feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn't think of anything that might be wrong. Walking back inside, I chose to ignore the feeling. I went about the rest of my day as normally as can be expected. I helped dad clean weapons, did some research for our next hunt, even managed to complete some homework. The whole time, however, I couldn't shake this sense of dread. Something felt wrong. But I kept telling myself I was getting too paranoid for my own good, and that seemed to calm my fears a little. Trying to convince myself that everything was fine, I went to my room to read while I waited for Dean to get home. Just as I settled down with a book, a knock came from the front door. Setting the book down on the bed, I left my room and made my way to the end of the hall just in time to see my father open the door. I'll never forget the feeling of absolute loss that gripped my heart while the police officer explained to my dad that my brother, along with his friend and mother, were killed in a car accident on their way home. As the officer expressed his sympathies, I stood there, shocked and uncomprehending, in the hallway. The only thought that ran through my mind was, "This isn't happening. This _can't_ be happening. Dean can't be dead, it's just not possible. This doesn't make any sense. He's supposed to be safe. My wishes always came true before, why not today?" And right then, it hit me. Understanding dawned in my brain as the familiar gnawing of dread ate away at my stomach. As I slowly turned to face the small clock hanging on the wall, everything became perfectly clear. My wish never came true…because I had forgotten to make it today. A single tear, the first of many, silently made its way down my face as I sickenly realized that I had missed 11:11.

I don't remember much about the events that transpired after that night. Bobby showed up late Monday evening, looking as though he had lost a son. He and dad talked it over and finally decided Dean would be given a proper burial. The funeral would be the following Saturday. Other than that, dad didn't talk much. I think he was still in shock. I spent the majority of my time alone in my room. I couldn't stop thinking that this was all my fault, my ten year old brain never registering the fact that my family had survived the previous nine years without me wishing on 11:11. My brother was dead because of me, and I was determined to make things right. So every day I sat on my bed, staring at the clock, waiting. And as soon as the time reached 11:11, I made my new wish: to please, _please, _bring my brother back to me. Every day, I prayed for my wish to come true. But it never did. My brother was buried on Saturday, but at what time, I couldn't really tell you. I couldn't bring myself to look that the clock.

That was twelve years ago, and I have never forgotten. Wherever I go, I keep my brother's memory with me, and that helps alleviate the pain a little. I've long since been told that 11:11 is no special than any other time of day. It's just a story, told to entertain young children. My brother's death wasn't my fault. It was just an unfortunate accident. At least that's what people continuously tell me. As I sit here on a bed, alone in a dark motel room, I still can't help but feel guilty. There has to be a way I can make things right. As I feel the cool metal of the gun in my hand, I glance at the clock. 11:10. They say 11:11 is merely a tale, an urban legend. But in my line of work, I find that some legends are true. As I raise the gun to my head, I look to the clock again. 11:11. Maybe I've suffered enough, paid my dues. Maybe this time it'll work.

Maybe, just maybe, 11:11 will grant my final wish.

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